Attention
by bwayphantomrose
Summary: She flirted, and I watched. She should have known better than to flaunt her attentions to someone other than me... A five-shot based on life after the musical. E/C
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I was looking at my account this morning and realized I haven't published anything since September of last year! Where did the time go? Anyway, I decided that wouldn't do... I had to post _something_, even though I have a story going. This is only a five-shot, based mostly on the musical. Enjoy and PLEASE review!**

Every night she sang, and every night I watched.

Sometimes, I wished I could be right next to her, singing with her. Sometimes I wanted to be in the orchestra pit so I could accompany her with one of the many instruments that matched her voice. And sometimes I wanted to be in the audience, so I could appreciate her from all angles.

But all of those were impossible, so I stayed in my dark corner and simply watched.

Have you ever seen her sing? The way she moved her body in proportion to the music, the way her eyes sparkled even from that distance… There was something magical about her performances. Everyone loved Christine. She was stunning, she was musical, and she was perfect. People from all over the world wanted to hear her sing.

I should have been used to it, I supposed. After the show, she was always surrounded by her many fans. Many of them were men. She never showed the slightest interest in any of them, my little love. Instead, sometimes she would look around at nothing, and give a little small smile, and I would know that was for me.

But this time was different. She came off the stage, looking radiant and almost glowing, her skin giving off the shine of someone who had just had an exuberant time and loved every second. Christine loved singing onstage. I never regretted allowing her. I just wished she wouldn't come off.

When she came off, the men were waiting.

Didn't I tell you, I should have been used to it? That she cared nothing for them? If I said it didn't bother me in the slightest, I would be lying.

I hated them all. I hated them for loving Christine, for looking at her beauty when it only belonged to me! Damn them for even approaching her when she was so desirable, so wanted by so many people. I hated them with a passion! I watched them crowd around her, and she laughed and obliged them with their questions, but constantly trying to get through them, so _she could get to me_. I continued to remind myself of this simple fact, nearly chanting it in my mind with its reassuring repetition.

I stayed in my corner, snarling a little when a young man fell back nervously as she pushed through them. _Run off, now_, I thought sourly as he looked sadly at the ground and walked away.

Christine continued walking through them all, her attentions focused on other things that the crowd surrounding her. _Me_, I thought hopefully.

"Mademoiselle Christine?"

I hated his voice first, because it was masculine and full of confidence, the very men I hated. I hated his appearance next, because he was tall and dark and handsome. And then I hated him because he made Christine turn.

What was it about him, that made her turn when she had refused all the other's attention?

_This was bad._

She turned to face him, and he seized her hand and placed a light kiss on it. I had seen that before, too… It still made me sick with fury.

"I have dreamed of hearing you for many years," he smiled, and I instantly hated his smile, his white teeth overbearing in their arrival. "And I must say, you have exceeded every expectation."

"Why, thank you," Christine said, and her voice was light and thankful. She was not trying to push this man away. She was being gracious towards him, inviting his further. Did I see her hand brush his?

He made a little bow to her. _I hated his bow._ "From my country, they often spoke of the coloratura soprano who made men swoon. They spoke of your ethereal voice, but they hardly managed to covey your beauty."

Other people were watching them now, looking interestedly at the man who had caught the prima donna's attention.

Christine didn't look ashamed. She was smiling now, stepping closer to him. Her voice was like the angel's, so intoxicating… She was drawing him in just as surely as she was drawing me in, my hands now clenched tight around the wallboard.

I shouldn't have been watching! I couldn't breathe for pain, for anger… She was betraying me!

"Where do you come from?" she asked politely, her eyes sparkling with interest.

"A small town in England, mademoiselle," he answered. "But I hope to make Paris my home."

_Like hell you will. Go back from where you came from. We don't want you here._

"Your French is very good," Christine said. She was complimenting him! She was noticing his voice, she was commenting on his speaking… His voice… My voice was supposed to control her, and she was noticing his. "What is your name?"

She was asking his name. She _wanted _to know his name.

I fell to my knees in anguish. A few people nearby turned at the small noise, but none could see me.

"James Parrson," he answered, and I hated his name. What sort of name was that? I would remember that name for as long as I lived, and remember how much I hated it.

"It was very nice to meet you, James," she replied, laughing a little. She called him James. They were past formalities now. Maybe they were even in love…

"Would you join me for the evening downstairs while we have dinner?" he asked, and her face grew sad with disappointment. I always thought she was disappointed when she couldn't see me after her show. That's what she had told me, anyhow; she had lied.

How could I have hoped to gain her love, when men like this were around? For two years, she has worn my ring, sworn her eternal love, held me when I cried in disbelief, soothed my every fear and worry, given me anything I could have possibly asked for… And now we are finished. I have enjoyed my two years, and now she sees fit that I am released. She is released. She is no longer chained to her hideous husband, who watches her in the shadows, because he cannot be by her side.

Oh, I hate him! I want him to die in every possible way a man can die!

"I'm sorry, but I am busy tonight," Christine said, and I had never heard such grief in her voice. They were so close now, they were almost touching. The hallway was mostly empty, and still clearing out. They would be alone in a moment… or so they thought.

"Perhaps another evening, then?" he asked hopefully, and she seemed to give him a little smile… a _seductive_ smile, that made me choke with pain. My head was hurting, my chest was hurting… beneath my terrible sadness was a terrible rage… Someone was going to die tonight. And if I couldn't get to _him_ fast enough, then others would go, too!

"Perhaps," she answered, and their hands brushed again. They both stared at each other, their eyes swirling with love and affection.

"Then, with luck, I will see you another evening."

His fingers twirled with hers, and she had to take herself away.

Every night, she has sung, and I have always watched her.

But I will never watch her again. Because I will never allow her to sing again. She will stay down with me, away from other men! She will learn, that she has given herself to me, and she has no self left! All of her is mine, for me to take pleasure in, for me to control. How _dare_ she even look at him! She_ knows_ I am watching!

Oh God, she wanted me to see. She wanted to flaunt herself to others, so I could see who else she could have. She wanted to show me that she didn't love me, that she was moving on. Two years has been enough for her.

I loved her so much…

I watched her walk away, looking over her shoulder, and blowing him a kiss. He blew one back, and stared where she had been for a long time. Smiling to himself, he strolled the opposite way.

My hands trembling, I slid down the wall where I sat frozen.

I began to cry, hot, heavy tears that drowned me.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a noisy crowd tonight! I was hardly done with the final aria when they began clapping and shouting. Oh, of course it didn't bother me! I was flattered, like always.

I beamed at everyone as the curtains closed, and I was suddenly submerged in the middle of the cast and stagehands. "You have the largest crowd ever, Mademoiselle," a small maid whispered to me. Adelaide was my friend, and she knew that I liked to leave right after my shows. "You'd best get going if you hope to be out of here any time soon."

I gave her a smile of gratitude and opened the doors to the hallway.

So many people! They were everywhere, most of them kind and hopeful, wanting to speak with me. I was so blessed to have such devoted fans!

But they didn't know my secret. My secret was that I did not worship them as they worshiped me. While I was thankful for them, their words of praise never moved me. The only man's approval I craved was never here.

But perhaps he was somewhere.

Many a time, I had tried to convince him to come out, just once. Or at least make an appearance as my husband—I still went by 'mademoiselle', and I felt that if people know I was married, I would not have so many male suitors. I knew they bothered Erik, but we finally had agreed that it was too dangerous and assuming to share _any_ details of my personal life.

"You did beautifully," I heard someone shout through the crowded hallways, and people were close to me, smiling and nodding. Some of them had flowers or small gifts—I could only smile at them all. I did love to be the center of such attention.

I finally managed to turn at the end of the hall, giving a few items to Adelaide, who pushed them in her skirt. Over the top of her head, one lone man had separated from the crowd in the wings and was still coming towards me. He walked with an arrogant and supreme air that caught my attention, although I turned away quickly.

"Could you drop these off at my room?" I asked Adelaide, and she quickly departed. I couldn't escape myself, however, before the man had taken my hand forcefully, and pressed his lips to my skin.

I wanted to withdraw from this blatant behavior, but his hand was tight around me, and I sensed too many onlookers to risk causing any sort of commotion from someone complimenting me.

"I have dreamed of hearing you for many years," he said instantly, and straightened up so I could see him better. "And I must say, you have exceeded every expectation."

"Why, thank you." I answered pleasantly, aware that this truly was an astounding compliment, whether he meant it or not. I so longed to credit my teacher.

"From my country, they often spoke of the coloratura soprano who made men swoon. They spoke of your ethereal voice, but they hardly managed to covey your beauty." he said, leaning over me.

I opened my mouth to respond, but then I tried not to wail in despair. So he was just like the others, in the end, who cared not for my voice, but was after my beauty. So shallow! I knew beauty could exist in more ways than one, and I believed that I had accomplished it in my voice. Was that not enough, to have a splendid talent, or did the young men here only wish to praise my outer appearance?

I saw Adelaide waiting patiently by my door at the end of the hall, but I could hardly walk away and behave rudely to this man who had just uttered such a thing to me. Aware of people watching me and certain that I could not simply run away without being labeled as a diva, I cast around for something to say. "Where do you come from?"

He had said, 'From my country', which had surprised me; he had no accent that I could detect.

"A small town in England, mademoiselle," he informed me, looking proud of his homeland. "But I hope to make Paris my home."

Paris was much better than any town in England, I was sure. Erik and I had once spoken of going to Europe, but both of us loved Paris so much that I believed we would be homesick within weeks. But Erik would be interested to hear that I had spoken to man from England!

"Your French is very good," I said honestly, but I was quickly tiring of the conversation. Erik always grew so restless if I wasn't home right after the show. I was sure he was jealous, upset that he couldn't always be here to see me sing. Perhaps he was here now, and hadn't gone home yet? Then I might still be home before he arrived… Was there any way I could close this conversation politely? "What is your name?"

I heard 'James,' but Adelaide moved at that moment, and I looked over to her distracted. Was she telling me I ought to leave now? I hastily turned back to this 'James', before realizing I hadn't caught his surname. What did I call him?

"It was very nice to meet you, James." I improvised, wondering if I was much to forward calling him by his first name. I was inching away from him now, and he looked crestfallen.

"Would you join me for the evening downstairs while we have dinner?" he tried hopefully, but there was no real conviction in his voice.

I didn't even disguise my haste, but said, "I'm sorry, but I'm busy tonight." I began walking away from him, down the hallway. I really had never stayed this long before, and my carriage might have already left. If I had to walk home, I might not be home until midnight! I tried not to let my face fall in disappointment.

"Perhaps another evening," he called, but he was losing interest in me as well. A well-shaped woman was hovering by the door, and she had her eyes on him. He was inching towards her now, and she tilted her head invitingly. I wished he would just go over there already. I had to get home… Besides, Erik had said that we could sing tonight if I wasn't too tired after the show… If I came back too late, he would insist that I go straight to sleep to get my rest.

"Perhaps another evening, then," he called as a farewell, raising one hand. I smiled and murmured, "Perhaps" as an echo, but I wasn't sure if he heard. I was thinking about Erik. I _had _done well tonight, hadn't I? I tried to recall my aria at the end of Act III, the one we had worked tirelessly over. If anything had fault, it would have been that right there. Last week he had come and been most displeased by the way I had ended my note. We had fixed together… he had said he was proud of me… and he had promised to come tonight. I gave a little smile, my eyes filling with joy at his compliments.

I realized that I was frozen in the near empty hallway, and my eyes were still on James and the other woman. He was flirting with her, something I could see even from my distance, and she put a gloved hand against his neck and laughed. So he was not interested in me at all… No man could be as faithful as my Erik was. Erik loved _me_ and me alone. It was not my vanity that made me sure of this, but our withstanding love that had overcome so much. I smiled faintly with love and devotion before remembering my carriage. With a small jump of surprise, I turned and walked hastily towards Adelaide.

"Did that James Parrson bother you?" she asked lowly. "He's been speaking to several women. I sense he's desperate."

I laughed. "Silly Englishmen."

She helped me slip into my jacket. "Tomorrow, mademoiselle," she said politely, inclining her head.

I smiled passionately, thinking about Erik waiting for me at home. Tomorrow would be another night, another show.

But tonight, it would be just Erik.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: A bit of clarification, since several of you have brought this up: This takes place about 2 years after the musical, when they have been together. I suppose you could consider if alternate universe, because Christine is with Erik and they live together while Christine still performs at the Opera House. Don't expect to see any Raoul; that was 2 years ago and it's never really been a problem. The only problem they have now is Erik's jealousy. I think it's safe to assume that this is not the first time he has grown jealous over some admirer of Christine's.**

**This chapter is a little shorter than the other two, but the next chapter is much longer.**

I forgot my sweater in the carriage, I was in such a rush to get home, and had to double back halfway up the drive to retrieve it. The night had grown rather chilly, and on such nights, Erik liked to walk me home. But I had not seen him at the theatre, and I had been too afraid to arrive home much later if I waited around for him. Although nothing had gone wrong, I had a twisted feeling in my stomach that something was not right.

I opened the door quietly, peering around the dark hallway. It seemed as though most of the lights were off—perhaps Erik wasn't even home yet.

"Are you home?" I called softly, knowing he would hear me no matter where he was. There was no answer at all. I reached out to turn up the lights in the main room and received a slight shock to se Erik sitting in his velvet green chair, staring at me.

I smiled warmly, trying to shake off my startled heartbeat at the sight of him in the darkness. "Am I so late?" I asked teasingly, setting down my things. "I was hardly away from the dear fans before Monsieur Ducet wanted to speak to me about changing the opening scene _again_—do you realize this is the third time he's changed it?"

Erik didn't smile at all. "Monsieur Ducet held you up?" he asked icily, and I paused. His voice was like the outside world, which was cruel and hard, and it burned even more sharply than the winter wind. I blinked in confusion, my eyes filling with sudden tears at the unexpected malice in his voice.

How I hated to upset him!

"I wish I could understand you," he commented bitterly out of nowhere, and said no more.

I pulled my scrambled thoughts together and tried to find what he was thinking about…what I had done to receive this cold welcome. "Erik, _I _don't understand. I was held up by the crowds, like always, and then the director. I came home as fast I could, you know I want to be here with you…"

"Oh, I see," he replied, but it didn't sound as though he saw anything he liked. "So I take it the director was the only man whom you spoke to?"

Something about the way he said that struck a chord in me, and I realized that Erik had been watching me all along and he had seen my interaction with the James who was hoping to make Paris his home. I tried to find anything about it that would make him upset… He was jealous? I tried to be compassionate, for I understood Erik and his jealously, but at the moment I was overcome with sudden anger that he was trying to trick me into telling him the truth.

"So you saw me talk with the one man backstage?" I demanded, and he just watched me. "Did that bother you so much? What was I supposed to do? Scream at him to leave me alone? This happens every week, you think you see something and you turn it into a huge deal! I was—"

"You _flirted_," he accused. "I _saw _you."

My _Why didn't you walk me home, if you were there? _died in my throat and I had to assure myself for a second that he wasn't teasing me, even though Erik would hardly be the type to tease in moments like these. "Excuse me?"

He could have been carved from stone. The way he sat, the way he viewed me, was all so cold and emotionless—so powerful and alluring—so intimidating in every aspect. There was absolutely nothing about him that appeared teasing in any way.

I tried very hard to recall; I had been so intent on getting away that I hadn't been paying attention to my foreign admirer. Had I perhaps given a certain smile or shown interest in one of his comments in a way that had touched a nerve with Erik? I even tried to think of someone else I talked to that would have upset him. I really hadn't been very nice to James. Surely that was not who Erik was speaking of?

"Everyone was calling for you," he said cruelly. "Everyone. You never turn. You come home to me. But you stopped… for him."

I sighed wearily. We'd had these conversations before. "I don't know what to tell you. _I'm_ a nice person. I was _trying_ to be, so I could get away and come home. To you. I greeted them like I always do. This particular person, James whatever-his-surname-is wanted to pursue an in-depth conversation, which I was not interested in. Rather than acting like a temperamental diva, I tried to be cordial and brush him off in a polite fashion."

"That is not what I saw."

I threw my hands toward him, his accusations putting me in a very sour mood indeed. "Who knows what _you_ saw, Erik!" How many times had we had this argument? When had he _ever _been right? "Obviously you saw something different than what actually occurs, and that makes me not know what to think! You see what you want to see, you let jealously twist your imagination until—"

"You think I _wanted_ to see that?" he burst out savagely. "You think I don't have reason to be paranoid? A lifetime of being used and betrayed, and you can't even understand why it would bother me to watch you flirting with a handsome man?"

I scowled. "I hope you have a better argument than that, considering I haven't flirted with a handsome man in _two years_."

He moved, like he meant to rise from his chair, and I drew back, instantly terrified. That movement startled me more than I would have ever expected, but there was something dangerously dark that lingered in his expression now, and I had a feeling that I had crossed some invisible line.

He evaluated my face for a full ten seconds, and then smiled in satisfaction at my fear.

It was the smile that set me off, not in an explosion of rage, but a deep pit that suddenly formed in my stomach. I was seized with a dramatic and childish desire to prove myself worthy of my own defense. Knowing full well that this was the wrong thing to do, I put my hands on his shoulders and kissed him, but it was black—fire meeting ice and it burned a wall between us that smoldered and shocked.

"You're a liar if you think I don't love you," I said quietly , crushing him in my arms. "You are making this up in your own head. And you know it."

He didn't move or respond, simply stood there, detached and completely emotionless.

I was the one who pulled away, because he chilled me more than I burned him. He chuckled, and said, "You don't have to prove anything to me, _dearest_. You already proved yourself earlier tonight."

"Oh, Erik, you cannot be serious!" I burst out, blinking back tears. "Is this real? Do you truly believe I was unfaithful to you?"

"Perhaps you should just learn to keep to yourself after performing," he said swiftly. "Perhaps you need to learn how to have self-control around handsome men."

I was angry, but mostly I was hurt. I was hurt that he didn't trust me, and that he played with me like this, as if to coax me into telling him what he wanted—no, what he _didn't_ want to hear. I stalked away from him, my voice severe, but my eyes still wet. "Perhaps it would just be best if you stayed away from me when I'm performing."

His own voice betrayed no surprise, with only a faint twinge of amusement. "If you think it's for the best."

I sulked, impatient with his lack of reaction. I wanted him to suffer consequences when he acted ridiculous like that, and I wanted him to beg for forgiveness, to admit that he was being silly, to assure me that he knew he was the only man who I had ever let into my heart.

But of course, Erik would never say anything like that. His pride was easily transparent through his relaxed façade, and when I prowled into the hallway, I saw his shoulders relax and I heard him sigh.

I sighed as well, an involuntary echo that voiced our unique stubbornness, and perhaps a lack of trust.

It should have been addressed, it should have been resolved quite easily, but instead of facing it, I pushed it to the back of my mind where I could pretend to forget how much it bothered me, convinced myself he would be over it by tomorrow, and dressed for bed.


	4. Chapter 4

--

The door opened in the dead of night, and my natural instinct to roll over and see him was muffled by our earlier argument. Instead I stayed curled up in my pillow, undisturbed by the opened door.

Erik said nothing, but came over quietly and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Christine?" he whispered, his hand resting on my waist. I'm not entirely sure why I continued to feign sleep, but I still didn't acknowledge him, my breathing slow and steady, my eyes closed.

His hands began to move, from my waist up my back, spreading out my hair. It bothered me in the strangest way; without opening my eyes, I said, "What are you doing?"

"Ah," he said darkly. "I knew you were deceiving me."

I pretended not to hear the double meaning in his word and finally opened my eyes into the frills of my pillow. "What are you doing?" I repeated.

"Coming to bed with my wife," he said in a surprised tone, as if he were doing something perfectly expected. "Is that an act fit to be interrogated upon?"

All was quiet for a moment, until his hands reached out and touched me again, in the same spot. "Is it?" he asked again, and his voice was very focused, unlike the hysterical rage of before.

This frightened me more than anything else, because nothing is more frightening than Erik when he is in control. He can think about things when he does, and analyzes every move he makes. He becomes the perfect predator—and on most days, I am perfectly willing to handle him like this, bringing his anger out of that icy control. But not now. Not when I feel like I am the prey.

"No, I—" came out of my mouth, but before I could finish, he had pushed me gently against the bed, his weight pinning me down. His lips grazed mine with an insistent pressure that was like some ritual that had to be completed in a certain way.

I tried again. "Erik, what—"

"Will you shut up?" he told me, wrapping his arms tighter around my waist. "Stop protesting, stop pulling away—"

"_You_ stop it!" I snapped, and I shoved hard against him, rolling around so he could only see me back.

I never knew the consequences of such an action—turning my back on him. There was a blur, like a smashing of fast motion above me, and suddenly I was lurched upright, my neck snapped back as he shook me.

"How _dare_ you push me away!" he exploded, shaking me very hard. "How dare you, _how dare you!_ And you stroll in here, like nothing's wrong—like nothing bothers you, you wouldn't understand—explain yourself!"

In sheer desperation, to get away from the violent shaking more than anything else, I used the silky sheets to slide from his grip, tangled myself, and fell off the bed. As my body fell to the floor, the hand he held me with did not follow, so that my arm remained suspended up in the air. Foolishly, I tried to scramble, and he did not release me. There was a funny _pop!_ and a spasm of pain encircled my wrist and shot up my arm to my shoulder.

I yelled in pain and he let go, but I only fell once more on my hand, another lightning jolt of pain shooting up my arm.

"My hand!" I said pathetically, clutching it to me, and Erik grabbed me brutally and lifted me up off the floor. He shook me, and I screamed in terror.

"Stop s_creaming!"_ he yelled at me, shaking me as he lurched over, pushing me back on the bed.

I cannot quite get it across how utterly I was afraid of Erik in that minute. I have always been able to calm him down, and I have always appreciated the fact that I hold the key card of security, knowing that he loves me more than anything. He _cannot_ hurt me without hurting himself.

But in that moment, I truly believed he would accidentally kill me and not remember it in the morning.

I tumbled across the entire bed and fell across the other end, onto the floor. I pulled the sheets on top of my head as if they would provide some sort of security for me, and could not keep back the choking sobs of hyperventilation.

I heard his heavy footsteps coming around to the other side, and I knew he was unstoppable. This was not Erik, this was not my husband—this was the green-eyed monster of Jealously, and he was stronger and more powerful than anything either of us could imagine. I was afraid of him. I was afraid he was going to hurt me in his rage.

"_Please, please, please!"_ I wailed in abject despair. "Erik, I swear, I love you so much, please, please! What have I done wrong? _Tell me what I have done?!"_

For a moment there was silence—silence I could not comprehend in my terrified state. I only rocked back and forth on the floor, like some overgrown child, clinging to my wrist with all my might. I thought about how wonderful the performance had been, what a good mood I had come out of, and couldn't imagine where I had gone wrong.

That's almost what hurt me the most. Everything had been going so, so well… It was cruel that this should happen now.

I slid out of the sheets just a little to where he was standing, and remained on the floor below him, my hands out in an act of inferiority. "Please," I whispered. "Please… Do not be angry with me… I love you. I do not deserve you."

He sighed heavily, as if all of this was very childish to him. I began to cry again.

"There is nothing to cry about," he scoffed quietly. "Get off the floor."

"My hand…" I moaned.

He seemed to hesitate, and then crouched down very carefully and lifted back the rim of the sheets to see my hand, bundled securely in my other arm. It had swollen to almost a comical size, turning a darker shade in the half-light.

"What's this?" he breathed, gently turning it so he could see all sides. I willed myself with all of my might to take a deep breath and not to slobber all over him like a baby.

"Christine?" he said again, pressing for an answer, and in that moment, my worst fears were confirmed: Erik has no memory of his anger.

"I…uh…" I gulp myself into a sitting position, and he raises his eyebrows at me as I struggle to adapt to the new timbre of emotions. "You were holding onto my arm when I …fell off the bed. It got pulled…"

He stared at me blankly for a moment. There was nothing in his face at all.

My concerned instinct took over, helped keep me calm, and I reached up with my good hand to touch his jaw lightly. "You didn't mean to…" I crooned, and he focused on my wrist again, dropping his hand slowly to encircle it, a perfect shape of his own palm. I winced, but he held no harder.

His tone was vaguely curious. "I did this?"

Every fiber of my being wanted to assure him that no, he did not… but I could not lie to that magnetic voice, to those strangely blank eyes, and I nodded.

He stared at me for several more long moments, before rising to his feet and saying, "Ah… I see."

Looking around at nothing, he began to back towards the door in that strange, hypnotizing manner, with those same blank eyes.

I knew then, staring at him, that I could not let him leave the room. At all costs, I could not let him be alone.

I leapt up, my head still spinning, my legs very unstable beneath me, and I grabbed his collar almost violently, yanking him away from the door. "Erik…" I said. "I love you. Please…Stay with me."

"Why did you flirt with him?" he asked, horror still etched his face. "Why, Christine? Why do you betray me?"

"Betray you?" I cried. "Erik, I am a performer! I am a star! I have fans, I have admirers, and I enjoy the attention! This does not mean I care for any of them in any romantic way, or even in a way of friendship. There is only you… There had only ever been you! I am alone, and you are alone. We must come together. I don't want to be without you…"

"You are never without me," he said stiffly, not looking down.

"Yes I am. After every performance, I am alone. And I wish you were there, waiting for me."

"I am there."

"Hiding doesn't count. I want you… I want to touch you, I want you to hold me, and I want you to tell me that I did a good job, that you are proud of me." He finally looked at me, his eyes still hidden. "No one else can offer that. And even if they could, I wouldn't want it."

"But, I saw you…" he persisted, but there was a note of uncertainty about him now. "I saw how you looked at him. He was handsome. And he was English."

I shook my head. "You may not be handsome, Erik, but you are beautiful. And he? I do not know him. I do not care to know him, with his fancy airs and his determination to woo any girl that he first sees." I sniffed, remembering his brazen attempt at another seduction by the door. "Didn't you see him head off to another girl after I refused him? Men! Never satisfied, are they? What would you do if some pretty girl came up to you and talked sweet to you? Would you rudely turn on her and refuse to speak with her when all she wished to do was congratulate you?"

The look of nothing on his face was replaced with a scowl. "Pretty girls do not come up and talk to me."

I stepped towards him, pursing my lips at him. "I am insulted."

He did not smile—instead, he looked down at my wrist again. "And rightly so," he whispered. "My very presence should insult you… my love should insult you… every breath I take is an insult to you and the trust you have put in me!"

I could not allow him to get angry again, and my eyes filled up with tears. They were a nice effect, for he catches sight of my face, and every contour of him softened. "Christine," he murmured, and his voice soothed me, but couldn't quite take away the ache in my heart.

He picked me up off the floor and carried me over to the grey chair in the corner, and sat down with me curled up in his lap. I did not hesitate to push my advantage, and I wrapped my arms around his neck and cried into his chest. His hands went up and down my arm, and I could feel him shaking his head over and over again.

"You're scaring me," I said brokenly. "All I did was come home from a show, like I do every night, and suddenly you were so angry, and I felt so terrible that you were so angry… And all I wanted was for you to tell me that I had done… a g-good job.."

I heard him inhale, and his hands stopped. "Don't cry," he said, his voice a little tired now. "I get so jealous, it's not your fault, and the last thing I want you to do about it is cry."

"Then what _do_ you want me to do about it?" I demanded, sitting a little upright, but he instantly pulled me back down.

"What do _I _want?" he said after a moment, his hands curling in my hair. "I want to keep you away from everybody! I'm sick of having people look at you, and I'm especially sick of having people _listen _to you… I'm sick of having to share you. I want you to be only for me. That's what I want."

I must have been looking at him in horror, for he sighed again, and said, "But of course, that's not possible, is it? Not logical, not reasonable… You need to be shared. I have no right to keep you away like that. I am not the only one allowed to enjoy you."

He turned away, his lips pressed together, and I carefully traced the edges of them before I said, "But Erik, you _are_ the only one who I belong you. I sing for you. I have been faithful only to you."

"I know," he said.

My eyes filled with new tears. "Then I don't understand…"

I pushed my face into the collar of his shirt and bit my lips together while I tried to stop myself from crying again. Without looking at me, he shifted his arms around me, and said, "Neither do I, Christine. If only I understood."

"Believe me…" I whispered. "Please believe me."

There was a terrifyingly long silence, in which I hid my face and breathed in unsteady breaths, while I waited for his response. He tightened against me, and I felt every bit of his fear and insecurity that would forever plague him. There was nothing I could do about it, expect to reassure him again… and again…and again…

"I believe you," he finally said softly.

I knew then, that I was safe.

For tonight.

--


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks for putting up with this short little story. Hope you liked it. I tried surprisingly hard with this one. Dont' worry, another story will be posted soon-- as everyone has no doubt figured out, I like to have two stories going on at once. :-)**

**--**

Every night she sang, and every night I watched.

It is a tradition that will never grow old, a tradition I will never tire of. It does not matter what role she is playing, or what show she is in. I have seen her act in every way possible, and I enjoy it all the same.

She believes there are times when I cannot make her performances, and she is wrong; I have never missed one. I never will. To do such is unthinkable.

And of course, every rose has its thorns. I am permitted to enjoy the beauty of her performance, but then I must endure the attention of her admirers.

I have watched them as closely over the years as I have watched Christine. As a popular young diva, her fans are often very excited to greet her, often overly enthusiastic. It is my duty to keep an eye on them, for her protection. One of many of the promises I have made to her over the years is to keep her safe.

I have never willingly broken a promise I have made to her. Unwillingly, perhaps.

Of course, that is why I am here, doing what I am doing tonight.

I really do not think she understands that when I say I am here every night, I mean that I am here _every night._ How could she possibly believe me, when she seemed too desperate to know that I would attend the show tonight? If she knew that I had never missed one, it wouldn't have bothered her so.

Does this mean she thinks I lie?

I was not hidden in my usual place tonight. Instead, I did something I thought we had long ago agreed I would not do again—I was in a box. The seat had been legally and rightfully purchased, so there was no reason that I could not sit back for once and actually enjoy the show.

But I never enjoyed a show less. I moved restlessly, distracted by everyone and anything when Christine was offstage. It was an extraordinary tribute to the flawless quality of her sound and beauty that kept me riveted enough while she was, at least, _on_ stage. Not masked in the darkness, too far away to see her perfectly, and not being able to watch her enter and exit the stage for every scene was withering me.

I could almost say it was worth it, those few times when her eyes flickered up towards my box and grew warm with thanks. I knew she couldn't see me from such a distance, and truthfully would not know the difference whether I was there or not. I could have snuck back to my spot in the wings and watched her perform with much more ease.

But I promised.

I was, perhaps, the only one who remained in my seat when the final curtain closed. One by one, I watched the silly ensemble come out in lines. Everyone else in the audience was tripping over themselves, trying to clap the most enthusiastically, but I waited. My applause only is directed towards one person, the only person who has ever earned my gratitude.

She was the second to last to come out, right before the lead tenor, all on her own. She was in her last act costume, a gown of shocking blue, the color that stands out even in a rainbow. I rose carefully and leaned over the edge to see her smile, her exuberant and glittering expression.

And ever so nonchalantly, she raised her hand.

No one else could have possibly interpreted the depth of this action.

She was giving credit to _me_.

Of course, no one but the two of us would ever know that. It was so small, it was like an absent flick of the wrist, directed nowhere in particular. But it was a permanent gesture, right to me.

I swelled with pride. You see, that was my student. That was my prized pupil, who I have seen rise to such success.

However, the glory cannot last long. In a few moments, I knew what was to come next.

Sulking only for a second, I slipped out of the box before the other patrons would depart and made my way down the back staircase towards the stage. I did not hesitate at the threshold of the auditorium, but merged quickly into the shadows before stowing myself away towards backstage.

Thank God the main hallway was still only crowded with the cast…They were easy enough to slip past, and I did no without any difficulty. Christine's dressing room was characteristically messy, with old gowns and cloaks thrown rather haphazardly around. With a heavy sigh, I set about picking up after her, as I do at home. My messy, messy girl.

Luckily, I only have a moment to wait. I heard the crowd before her, their voices simply loud and obnoxious. I heard her laughter, and I tightened, wondering what she was laughing at… who was making her laugh… whose attentions she was acknowledging…

The door was flung open, and bolted shut just as quickly. Christine leaned to the crack of the door and wall and said, "I'm so sorry! I must change. I must get home!" Laughing again, she turned to me, and I am all prepared to politely congratulate her, to be gentle with her as I stand here as proof that I will do whatever she wishes of me—

I had two seconds where I tried to open my mouth when she tackles me. Her carefully styled curls fling around my face, the heavy swish of her skirts hit me, and I am met with a hundred-pound force as she squeezed me like I was her favorite teddy bear.

My words died on my lips. I allowed her to continue crushing my lungs until she pulled back, looking exuberantly at me. "How did I do?" she purred. "I tried to relax, like you said, and I was careful about my lead-up notes, I know I was going flat in rehearsals—"

I kissed her nose, then each cheek, then her lips… She tried to prolong it, but I pulled away and lifted her arm to press a kiss to the barely concealed plaster cast her wrist is in. I kissed every corner of the wretched thing before I say, "Perfect."

We did not say much more that night. We would have had to have been quiet anyhow, with the hundreds of people pounding on her doorway. But alas, they did not know, and will never know, the wall that opens in the back out to the street below. She changed and we departed together, leaving behind the screaming fans.

Maybe Christine and I were never meant to be like everyone else. We are never perfect. We are happy—sometimes. There will always be something. I am a broken person, and I have more imperfections than she has curls on her head. I am jealous and angry, possessive and violent, and I can often be unintentionally cruel. I have hurt her before, and I will hurt her again—the curse of our relationship.

And yet, it makes it only more beautiful with the moments where everything is fine. Where she is mine, and most importantly, I am hers.

At home, I helped her release her heavy hair, and then the clasps on the back of her dress. My mouth was flimsy with inadequate compliments. How am I to convey to her the sheer loveliness of her performance? How do I explain how much she means to me? How do I tell her how sorry I am?

I cannot. I never will.

She turned when I was finished and brought me over to our little couch. I imagined she wanted to talk about the show, but instead she pulled off my mask and nestled into me, still smelling of the sweet perfume of the Opera. Her lips lingered at mine before trailing down the front of my neck, and to the buttons beyond.

Christine will always have my complete attention, whether it be onstage or at home or anywhere in the entire world. She will always be mine. There will always be someone trying to pull her away—I can name countless names and see countless faces in my minds eyes as they parade past with their affections—but no matter. They will not deter _my_ affections.

She will have all of my attention for eternity.

And I will have hers. Tonight, tomorrow, and every night. No matter what obstacle comes in our way. And there will be more—many more. But for every trial and tribulation, I have everything I need in her.

Forever.

Mine.

--


End file.
